


The Burning Question

by ryssabeth



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:58:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But why?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Burning Question

Never has Enjolras understood (nor does he think he will ever understand) why Grantaire still shows up if most of what he puts up with is derision and mockery. It is as much a hint as genuine curiosity and so he asks, “why do you still show up if nothing here interests you but drink and humour, which you could get anywhere?”

“I have never said that nothing here interests me,” Grantaire defends. “But regardless, I could suffer abuse a thousand times and still I would wake up the next day, and come back here.”

That doesn’t explain why. Enjolras tells him so.

And Grantaire just _smiles_ before he says, “you might want to ask that question to Jehan. He’s the poet—not me. I can only translate feelings to colours.” The bottle with which he’s gesturing is half-full, something of a marvel, given his penchant for drinking and his implied goal of never leaving a drop behind. What’s even more impressive is that he places the bottle on the table where he’s sitting, landing his feet on the floor and wandering over to the others, tossing his arm around Combeferre’s neck.

The others look tired and drawn—rather somber, if Enjolras is being completely honest in his characterization—but each and every one of them smiles at Grantaire’s greeting, his less-than-delicate inquiry into their personal lives, and they laugh at the common rendition of his ( _“Can’t remember a thing, really. Probably the drink.”_ To which Joly inevitably replies, _“most certainly the drink._ ”)

For all that he is obnoxious and insufferable and confusing and more-often-than-not an irritant—he’s entertaining. Makes this entire enterprise more tolerable to the others.

“And had you been there today, you might also know,” Marius hums from behind him (and Enjolras doesn’t startle, but he does arch a brow). His smile is disconcerting.

“What?” Enjolras asks, propping his boots on the tabletop that Grantaire had vacated, the still-half-full bottle sitting near his crossed ankles.

The smile remains on Marius’ face, but he says, “oh. Nothing.” He, too, wanders over to the others and Grantaire foregoes harassing Combeferre to embrace Marius with an enthusiastic (and entirely disapproved of) shout of _Marius, in love at last!_

Grantaire leads Marius toward the corner of the café, closest to the window where sunlight still streams onto the floor. It gives them almost no privacy—the top floor is rather small, especially when it isn’t as crowded as usual, but still they go and Enjolras can hear them speak.

“Describe her to me,” Grantaire says to Marius, taking a seat in the chair closest to the light. Marius looks befuddled and realisation dawns on him when Grantaire pulls out a small book and a pencil (the former from his coat—it’s amazing it’s still on him—and the latter from his boot—and it is a wonder it isn’t broken).

“Why? Surely you—“

Grantaire’s face is as serious as Enjolras has ever seen it. (He tries to make it seem like he isn’t eavesdropping—and that is rather difficult.) “You saw her for a minute, you say, and are in love?” To this, Marius nods. (He rolls his eyes.) “Then describe to me the face you fell in love with, the shape of her eyes, her lips, her hair. Her cheekbones. What lies behind her eyes would be helpful too.”

Marius looks skeptical. Enjolras feels it.

But still, the _lonely soul_ sits down and begins to speak, and Grantaire sketches eyes (certain distances apart) and lips and ears and hair and he asks _like this?_ And Marius will either agree or say _no, more like_ —

Enjolras could break this up. He could send each man to do a job for their preparations.

But instead, he lets the others murmur and laugh at the table, lets Marius and Grantaire talk about the woman.

At least, until, Grantaire says (with finality), “that’s all I need. Thank you.” It’s a dismissal—a tone Enjolras has never heard and apparently Marius hasn’t either, because it is only when Grantaire turns a page that he heads back toward the others.

“A game of cards?” Feuilly offers, tilting his head to look up at Marius.

The entire group, in eerie tandem, look toward Enjolras—and, with a disparaging sigh he acquiesces. Grantaire asked for no approval, and just sits near the window, his hand sketching along a fresh page, though Enjolras cannot hear the gentle scratching from here. His dark curls hang over his forehead and his sleeves are rolled up to prevent unintended smearing (he imagines). Occasionally, he taps against his lower lip with the end of his pencil and occasionally he reaches for a bottle that isn’t there.

But he doesn’t move from his place. At least until he says, “Apollo,” and the tone is a tease, “could you turn your head toward the rest of our friends, please.” He doesn’t specify why and it’s beyond Enjolras why he does so without asking.

And Grantaire goes quiet again, shifting in his seat, his hair shifting with him, and it is almost as if—from the corner of his eye—Grantaire has turned into a different person. Or maybe the person he had been before drink had pulled him into an everlasting haze.

Enjolras says nothing about it.

An hour passes, and then two, and by then Enjolras has moved to play a game of cards (or three), trying to keep his intense political feelings under his tongue—it’s only one day, a day of rest before the storm. It is at the cusp of the third hour that Grantaire cries out in triumph and carefully (but quickly) removes a page of his book, striding over with more pride in his shoulders than is humanly quantifiable. Marius stands, flattening his cards against the table, to reach for the picture being handed to him by the grinning drunkard.

He looks to be breathless. His fingers ghost over the page as Grantaire tucks his book and pencil back away, keeping his sleeves rolled above his elbows as he watches rapture spread over Marius’ face.

( _“I would still wake up the next day,”_ Grantaire says in his head, _“and come back here.”_ )

The picture goes around, though Marius cannot seem to sit, and each man whistles lowly (Jehan laughs in delight). When it comes into Enjolras’ possession, he admits that it is breathtaking, for a sketch. It is of a woman, with long hair and round eyes, a face with cheekbones, but not very pronounced. Her hair turns to mist at the edges, along with the gentle slope of her shoulders. Her lips are full and a smile alights them as she glances off the page.

The shading of her face is similar to the lighting where Enjolras had been sitting.

“A ghost, you said,” Grantaire speaks when the picture returns to Marius. “A ghost, maybe.”

He grins and it’s—he looks impressive. And he _glows_ with Marius’ approval.

Enjolras only sees him glow like that when _he_ manages to say something polite.

“It’s—this is _perfect_ , Grantaire, this is _exactly_ her, this—this is.” Marius swallows. No one says anything. “Thank you.”

“Of course!” Grantaire sweeps out his arms. “Keep that on you, and perhaps we can fool luck into looking after you for us. A charm, if you will. Joly, you said that people can take ineffective medicine and heal just the same?”

The pre-med nods, looking up from the surface of the table. “Yes, sometimes, so far as we know.”

“Well this might convince Lady Luck that you need her, though the woman is not with you,” he explains.

“You speak as if you intend to fight with us,” Enjolras picks his own cards back up and Marius finally resumes his seat.

“I do,” Grantaire tells him and he locks their eyes, holding Enjolras’ gaze and refusing to drop away. “I intend to fight with you when this folly comes to kill us.”

“You’re joking,” _I’m testing you, Grantaire._

“I’m not.” And he passed. He _passed_.

“Why?” A recurring theme with him, a repeat of their earlier conversation. _Why? Why are you here? What are you doing?_

He rolls his sleeves back to his wrists, but his eyes still hold Enjolras in place. “What is the world without the Sun, Apollo? Explain it to me, so that maybe I could find a way not to go. But I doubt that you can, for all that you speak well. And so I will fight with you.”

He has nothing abrasive to say and no one has anything to smooth this over or change the conversation. And this—everything, this day, this calm, it—it makes him think of the pencil upon Grantaire’s lip, tapping there, maybe an offer for a kiss, maybe not, an artist’s habit instead.

Enjolras moves the chair, moving closer to Marius, and he clears his throat, “sit with me, if you would.”

“Who am I to say no to the Sun?”

He pulls a chair up to their card game, his knee brushing against Enjolras’.

He does not bring a bottle.

But he does settle in to begin sketching again, despite the slight tremor in his hands.


End file.
